


Rhaegar's Odes

by Tsume_Yuki



Series: Amative [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Terrible Attempt To Practice Poetry, Bad Poetry, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Master of Death Harry Potter, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: Ten years pass by from the Battle of the Trident, and within the Red Keep, Cersei Lannister discovers a secret room, a room filled with the late Prince's poetry.Poetry that explains just why the last name a dying Prince breathed was neither of his wife or a shewolf.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Years ago, a goddess first graced Westeros, though I knew not what she was at that time.

Colouring exquisite, as bold as flames in darkness, the sparks that fly from flint, the fire that first roars to life.

I knew not that she was birthed from the stars, infinite galaxies stolen away to shelter in her knowing eyes,

knew not that the world could dance to the request of her fingers, that as her wrists twirl so do the oceans.

As our acquaintance grows longer, my disbelief grows greater,

for why does such a celestial remain here, surrounded by these human unpleasantries when she could dine and dance with gods?

Dread the day she leaves, for it is a hollow place within me she has come to occupy, and I shall no longer be complete.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

She flew from my notice, right at the start.

Travelling upon a well worn road, accompanied by trusted friends, almost does my gaze pass over her, despite the colours she has been gifted.

A mane of fire, curling freely around an oval of sun warmed marble. Emeralds that rest within a crackle of storm's flaming tongue, cautious and curious.

She looks not upon me, pays no heed as if a prince were nought but a passing bird, a common occurrence instead of a rare sighting.

It is an impression that lasts, even as she is long out of sight, she is not far from mind.

 

Perhaps it was only right, given how oft she haunted every thought, that she should appear again a scant moon later, as deceptively quiet as before, ignore the loudness of her features.

None seem to recognise her, none seem to pay her much mind, and mayhap that is what attracted my attention ever more.

Freely she speaks, words laced with accent of distant shores, unrecognisable to the most learned of ears,

tales of adventure, of magic and wit.

Such a delight to speak with, she appears twice more.

 

The third she becomes Hariel, a stranger no longer.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Dancing flames, thick coils that spill over thin shoulders,

my Hariel, faithful friend, lips haveth never spoken an untruth.

You who's eyes burn greener than grass, greener than the stems of roses and greener than the spiralling leaves,

you who's face is bathed within the sudden spike of thunderclap,  

who's eyes are graced with the fearsome fork of the gods' lightning.

She who has sat close, has woven tales of magic and wonder,

who haveth offered me her truest council, who has no desire for riches or reward.

How painful the realisation that there will never be an official decree,

how painful a realisation it shall never be you who becomes shrouded with Targaryen colours,

how painful that you shall never call me lord husband, how I shall never aloud proclaim you lady wife.

My heart is yours to hold, for body and mind belong solely to the realm.

I entrust you my soul, my honest emotion, and pray that when this body withers, you shall always find comfort with that treasured part severed only for you.

Hariel, sincere friend, gracious lover, Stranger's companion,

I hold your affections ever near, until I too walk willingly to greet your compeer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

' _You who's eyes burn greener than grass, greener than the stems of roses and greener than the spiralling leaves,_ '

Tracing those words, that one line, Cersei can almost believe they were wrote with her in mind, composed solely for her.

She can almost see it, can still picture the near inhuman beauty that had been Rhaegar Targaryen's face, can almost hear his impossible voice speaking those words. Only they were not ever declared, these words were not ever exposed to the public.

Perhaps these odes were created in this very room, a secret cache hidden within the walls of the Red Keep.

Perhaps they were only ever whispered privately, tenderly caressing the ear of the mysterious Hariel, this woman who so clearly held Rhaegar Targaryen's heart in her hands.

Poison, a green sulphur that shakes her very being engulfs her, leaving Cersei near breathless with envy.

What kind of woman could've been more beautiful than she? What kind of woman would it have taken to capture the undivided attention of unobtainable Rhaegar Targaryen?

Was it enchantment, the magic the Prince recalls?

It is the only thing that makes sense.

Cersei recalls Rhaegar near perfectly, had spent many hours looking upon his beautiful face whenever she could. Desire of becoming his queen, of birthing gorgeous babes with hair of silver and eyes of emeralds, children who look just like their father but have her eyes.

This future was crushed though, whether by that Frog, or by this woman whom enthralled Rhaegar so effectively, Cersei does not know.

Maybe they were one in the same.

Still, she cannot stop herself from tracing the words once again, cannot halt herself from reading all of the Odes she comes across.

It is painful, but it is also proof that even the Dragon Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the one whom Rhaegar loved so purely...

It is clear proof not even these two could find happiness in this god forsaken realm.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

It is the Stranger she finds comfort with,

they know one another as intimately as only brothers and loves are wont to do.

The abyss of the beyond does not present fear, instead it is a recognised destination for one such as she,

a place she has spoke of in whispered tales as captivating as  a summer sky.

How outré, that she should walk beside the most eerie of the Seven,

a deeper understanding between them than any river has ever run.

They are a tandem, Master and Servant, God and Chosen, hand in hand and no words need be spoken.

It is a symbiotic relation they share, a companionship unlike any seen before upon this earth.

By becoming entranced with one, I have gained the curiosity of the other.

The finality of the end scares most; not I.

I who knows what sweetness lies beyond, I who is not familiar with Death but has held its Master gently.

When it comes I shall greet both it and he,

for no longer does fear bind me.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Skin soft, silken velvet, dappled in the rising sunlight,

dread the day when I shall be given away.

You who is too honourable to lay with a married man,

how I wish that wasn't so.

Touch as if you handle another, fingers not the gentle hold that grasp at precious metals and stones,

but she who holds tight to true flesh and in that moment I am human,

shed the scales, the sulphuric throat of fire quenched,

never a dragon within your presence, never a prince or a thought prophesied saviour.

Just a man, nought but a man laid upon these ruffled sheets.

For a goddess such as my Hariel though, you proclaim that enough.

 

Tales spoken of in an accented tone,

unfamiliar and intriguing,

yours is a voice that could capture the hearts of all.

Charmed words, magic that dazzles and enthrals,

to listen to you, my remaining days could be spent doing nought else and a man would never die happier than I.

Wish my sense of duty was a little less,

wish I were not bound by chains of responsibility, shackled to a legacy that will bring riches or ruin.

Dear Hariel, sweet Hariel whom haveth conquered the Stranger, whom Death's unforgiving fingers forever fail to grasp,

should you ever ask it, ever mouth the words to run away with your gracious self,

perhaps I will surrender to your request.

A question that falters, an enquiry does not escape your lips,

and so I may never be capable to breathe my answering reply.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

There are times when I find myself bound by the shackles of our language,

for how am I ever to take these emotions and force them into words?

Exquisite fails to define your beauty,

unearthly falls short of truly comprehending your grace.

How to put into words, emotions that leave clear uncertainty within one such as I?

Is it possible for a man to hold such boundless love without falling apart at the seams,

to have the very core of his being replaced with the thought of you, only you?

The first thing to appear within my waking mind, the last thing to whisk through my head before sleep,

even within my dreams you haunt them so.

A foreignness swells within the once comforting hollow of my ribs,

ballooning with each tender touch of your hands,

rippling and expanding until it has stolen my breath as effectively as you.

How shall I ever live without you, you who's mesmerising presence enthrals me so,

you who weave within me dreams of the sweetest escapism,

fantasies in which I am no dragon but a man,

and you no godness but a lady wife.

A pray to the Seven, then a pray once more,

but the Stranger cannot hold you, so what hope does the Warrior, does the Mother have?

Untouchable by all that could control your life, as free and fierce as the Northern wind.

There is a cold hand gripping at my heart, squeezing with each breath I breathe,

clenching again and again as I struggle to voice what churns within my bones, how dearly and deeply you make me feel.

 

Oh dearest Hariel, the adventure from life will be the sweetest one, 

for it is one I shall experience by your side.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

Just this day, the King cackles of how he had burned another woman upon his fires,

a woman who's hair was as red as the flames that consumed her.

For a moment, the crazed spirit of dragons long past overtook me,

as if the Warrior himself had taken possession to wrought vengeance upon the one who stole you from this earth.

She was not you though, of course she was not.

You who has tamed the heat of fires, who has danced with tongues of flames threading between your fingers.

That single moment, the fear and helplessness that throbbed within at the thought of your ashen body,

I cannot lose you.

 

If this is Targaryen madness,

then I shall embrace it with open arms.

To forever be thinking of you, to be enraptured by the very thought of your gorgeous body and celestial mind.

To hear whispers of women blessed enough by the Seven to have just a slither of your features,

for their heads to be topped by the blazing colours of sunset,

for their eyes to gleam with the fresh colours of a ripened summer,

none shall ever manage to compare.

You are the dawning summer sun,  
the spring blossoms dancing upon a light breeze,

you are the prestige beauty of winter's snow,

the array of falling leaves that waver in autumn.

To describe your beauty as ought but a gift, as the seasons continue their miraculous turns, it would be a true crime.

To the one I would hold close,

the one whom I would declare lady wife if only the world were not so cruel,

you breathe wonderment into my soul.

 

 

 

Our kisses are numbered, a finite amount,

our time together dwindles as the realm marches on.

Fingers grasp tighter, hands hold closer,

lips give breath to words and promises that otherwise would lie still and silent.

Never shall I love another more so than you,

never shall I love another as I do my Hariel.

A princess I may take, a Queen I may one day find by my side,

never shall they compare to my divine goddess.

Let us fail to count each intimate brush of our lips, each stolen moment,

a final number is not what I wish to hold, but instead the tender memories of each happenstance that occurs.

Forever my heart and cherished thoughts shall belong to you, true love shall know no limits or bounds,

 

Until my last gasping breath,

I pray your name will be the last upon my tongue.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

  
  
A belly grows round, a swelling of unborn child.

It shall not be curls of red that grow, nor stars of emerald that peer back.

This child that comes, I shall treasure unto dying breath, they shall never be perfect though, not borne from your lineage.

There's distance now, space between us, an age untold since I last met your lips. 

A greater loss man has never suffered, than to be so close and denied you, my dear. 

My lady wife, a title that should have been yours alone, 

a throbbing pain by the breastbone, a constant ache that sings of loneliness.

For no mere mortal could match your wit, your daring, your spirit,

the only truth I have never told another, a heart belongs to you, my lover. 

A sharp sting, what could have been, had I not been a prince in need of a queen,

were we just two people who met, who could idle away each passing day,

in nought but the others company. 

 

Verily I could have been happy, with no kingdom or crown, no riches or fame, 

just you in my arms for each and every falling dusk and cresting dawn.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

There is a prophecy that hangs heavy overhead,

whispered words that speak of dark days to come.

My dear, you have seen this all before, the hero in your tale that stood so tall and bold.

The dragon must have three heads, 

only two borne of one wife,

there shall be no more from the one I have slowly come to call friend.

How dearly I wish they were scales of ruby,

how deeply I wish those eyes glowed with liquid emeralds. 

The realm demands all, steals away all until only a near husk remains, 

marching on through the necessities.

Only when alone,

lying in the bed that was once ruled by us two,

can I allow my thoughts to dream of you. 

Of those elegant hands, so gracious and strong,

of those petal lips that promise so truly and speak no lie,

of your enchanting self, missed so dearly by my empty arms.

The dragon must have three heads,

you who has had prophecy rule her life before, how did you not buckle beneath such pressure?

I do not wish to partake in this once again, 

forever more is asked, things demanded that I burn only to gift to you.

 

How cruel this world is, that I must seek out others when it is my Hariel I long for.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

How strange Dornish culture is,

she has long accepted a declaration that my heart is already stolen long before we married,

Even now as I seek another to bear the third head,

it is with her truest blessing.

The shackles of our politics are so very different to her ways, 

it invokes a deep pondering.

What are a goddess' opinions upon such a thing?

Had our meeting happened differently, 

it is not with the Stranger, but with the Mother you would have been linked,

so obvious is your love, your desire for family. 

Saddening, how not even a deity such a you can be granted happiness. 

A mother to the third is now what one quested for, 

one who shall understand she will have no chance to steal a heart that is already bound with chains of unbreakable links. 

For all of those affections that bloom within my heart are pressed freely into your open palms, 

and I pray that what I cradle within the meadow of my body is an immortal heart

one to spend the last of my breathing years treasuring.

 

 

 

A She-Wolf, 

wild and free,

desperate to remain unchained.

Tentatively an agreement is formed,

exchanging protection and a mirage of shackles, 

to birth a child of ice and fire.

Surely this is the prophecy told long ago, 

the infinite threads of fate weaving seamlessly together,

a tapestry created.

Splendid an image showcased to the world,

with all the knots and disorder hidden beneath,

the chaos of the unseemly upon the flip side, it shall never see the light of day. 

Do you look upon this creation?

Or is it you that picks at the cluttered tangles, 

slowly eases them free,

removes them from the greater picture once their presence no longer remains necessary?

Let the last thread you pluck free be I,

so that there may never be a reason to leave the tender cradle of your fingers,

so you may never have need to release me from your grasp.

Allow me to rest this weary head down beside yours, 

for my role within this show must be nearing the finale, 

the act over and the stage reset for the opening of a long awaited tale. 

The way is paved for that Prince long promised, 

and I ache to drift into your loving embrace.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

War rages,

a storm long time brewing.

Bones are heavy, 

Through with proving points that were never sought out.

This fighting, a pointless endeavour.

The King a poison for the realm,

an antidote concocted, yet far too slowly. 

It is not one I shall witness administered,

already afflicted with dragon's blood madness.

How innocent an insanity though,

to steal my focus upon you only.

Long ago, an acceptance once formed,

it is you I would willingly die for, 

would lay down a life if you asked it if me.

That too has been stolen, wrestled away by those with the fury.

For all that fire and blood,

the choice of how these ashes will be scattered,

how this ichor will fall,

that too is pulled from my trembling grasp,

  
a stretch of sword the thought suitable replacement.

  
Never has four foot of steel seemed so very little, so inadequate.

For years, a heart has throbbed and craved to reach you, 

in a joining far more sacralised than the bonding of marriage. 

Soulmate, the half to create a whole,

the only explanation as to why all has fallen apart as I try to build this castle on my own. 

The stones have crumbled, for skilled with mortar I am not,

only a haunting shadow of what once was dreamt remains,

ruins far too recent than should ever exist. 

Pray the next adventure my goddess speaks so fondly of is an improvement,

with my Hariel by my side,

even eternal torture would be most exquisite. 

For my breast is conquered,

territory claimed in what seems an eon past,

it is your arrow that rests there,

your colours that flutter as a flag within. 

 

War is ripe for love and tragedy, 

a battle for the Trident.

It is time for my Goddess to claim her prize.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

"You know, I'm terrible at writing poetry myself."

Tyrion meets the strangest woman to ever appear in his life a mere year before everything falls apart. 

It is their only meeting. 

He's studying, flicking through poetry this time. Not groundbreaking stuff, but the words still house enough internal reflection to capture his interest.

Mayhap he will memorise some of the sweeter lines, to whisper into the ear of his latest bed-warmers. No matter their stature, all women appreciate honeyed words, that will never change no matter how they force themselves to react. 

Still, housed within the Keep of a Lord sworn to his father, Tyrion does not expect to see a creature such as this woman pull up a chair before him, a quill balanced delicately between her fingers as she lays parchment upon the table. 

"That you are attempting at all is a step forwards, my lady," Tyrion muses, eyes flickering all up and down her form, trying to place her. 

He's been to this Keep a handful of times, she must be new,his eyes would have never missed such a beauty. 

"He always wrote me such beautiful things, I felt like I had to give it a go, at least." She breathes these words quietly, as if it is a most treasured secret. 

Tyrion does not find it hard to believe this woman has had poets regale her with their works, that she has become a muse for one she clearly favours. Her colouring alone is exquisitely exotic, enough to inspire even the most amateur of artists. 

"And the lucky charmer to win such a beauty's heart?" 

"Dead," she whispers.

Her words do not hold a finality though, her eyes lingering upon the door as if her evidentially departed lover will sweep right across the threshold.

Mismatch eyes flicked to the paper, and the woman does not hesitate to push the parchment his way, penmanship impressive.

One quick glance, to ensure she is fine with him reading her most delicate thoughts, and Tyrion stills. 

The woman cradles a jewel between her fingers, one that rests in the hollow of her collarbones.

He has no idea just why, but his mind instantly leaps to the missing royal necklace, one who's disappearance his 'sweet' sister has raged over.

The only necklace Prince Rhaegar was ever seen to have crafted, never mind that he was said to have come away from the smithing fire with fingers that blistered for days.

Eyebrows furrowing, Tyrion focuses on the parchment, his mind whirling.

 

 

_Words have never come easy to me,  
_

_I'm a woman of action, I stumble whenever I try to voice my feelings,  
_

_But you wielded words with the same ease as a sword,_

_so it only feels right I at least attempt to birth these emotions.  
_

_Before you, I'd never wanted to pull another into my sphere,_

_into my world where nothing ages and Death is a figure, not an occurrence.  
_

_Before you, I never wanted to open up,_

_to allow another to touch me as surely as you have come to do,  
_

_Before you, I had never been so blatantly selfish as to ignore all the warning signs,_

_to accept your tender embraces and your loving words.  
_

_But after you,  
_

_after you I know there will be no other,  
_

_know there will be no fluttering first meetings,  
_

_know that eyes will never linger after strangers in passing.  
_

_It is you,  
_

_you who has breathed the colour back into this world,  
_

_you who has brought back the music that the world no longer sung into these ears.  
_

_It is you that has returned love to a girl who knew only death and war,  
_

_knew of endless eternity with nothing to hold.  
_

_Your time on this world may be short when measured by immortal means,  
_

_but I do solemnly swear that I am up to no good,  
_

_that your next great adventure will be one by my side, until you tire of my company.  
_

_Then, my Dragon Prince, I will hold you to my chest just once,  
_

_because those that love us, will let us go when we wish.  
_

_Though I do hope that should never occur,  
_

_I will take whatever time you grace me with._

 

_For I am yours until the final shadow, the last setting sun,  
_

_and when the night stretches it's stars out across forever,  
_

 

_As the Master of Death I so do declare,  
_

_There will be no Life for me when you're no longer there._

 

 

What.

Tyrion' eyes snatch up to glance at the woman once more, only impossibly, she is gone.

The chair upon which she once sat houses a simple symbol now, bleached right into the leather. A triangle embracing a bisected circle.

A symbol he later learns to have appeared upon every statue, every painting and every sculpture of the Stranger that Westeros houses.

 

  
Tyrion looks for the woman, the woman whom is impossibly too young to have held Rhaegar's favour yet who's words spoke of powers beyond their world.

 

Not until his next visit to the capital does he discover what his sister has found, and it is not until he has read all within that he receives more questions than answers.

 

He never allows her to know that there exists one final poem, an ode for the Last Dragon.

One that proves Rhaegar's goddess loves him past life and death itself.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I've had the idea of Rhaegar meeting Master of Death Harry for ages, being in love but kept apart because of his duty and her morals, but I just don't have the time to write it.
> 
> Then I started reading Ovid, and Propertius, and Catullus, and Horace. Followed by Danielle Shorr's 'let' and Watsky's 'nothing like the first time' and suddenly a need to write crappy poetry was born. Because, Rhaegar was good with singing so why not poetry too? ~~Even if I can't write it for toffee~~
> 
> So yeah. Here we are.


End file.
